Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

With a Rebel Yell

Hey little sister, what’s that you smell?
Hey little sister, it’s Axe and LA Looks gel.
Hey little sister, who’s your doucheyman,
Hey little sister, why are studded belts so stupid,
Hey little sister, saline…

It’s a nice day to, someting something…

Yeah, I’m mixing up my songs. But I have a good excuse. Boobies.

State School

PIC DELETED

But on the bright side, at least Denny’s is always hiring.

State School Douche: Welcome to Denny’s, please ignore my underwear poking out three inches above my jeans. May I take your order?

Me: Uhm yeah, I’ll have the Grand Slam Breakfast, eggs over medium, a small coffee, and Stripey Hott’s cinnamon buns served with a side order of bacon.

Mmm’kay? Thanks.

Do You Wanna Know Why His Ego is So Big?

I’m guessing it’s the herps.

Oompa Waspa

Even an Oompa Waspa is struggling to figure out who to vote for in the Monthly.

Man, you know things are bad when Chip Johnson The Third takes time off from the country club and going over his stock portfolio by the pool at the summer home with Father, Muffy and Missy, in order to Orange it up, Prompa Style.

Put down the Man-Tan and get back to prepping for the LSATs, Chip.

HCwDB of the Month

This is an epic smackdown. Four quality hottie/douchey couplings. And by “quality,” I mean a dead lizard frying on the grill at an Outback Steakhouse.

But only one can triumph. Only one selection contains that perfect, transcendent mix of sexy young hottness and God defying douched-out cloth-rending tear in the societal soul of cultural progress.

Each scrotey/boobie coupling had what it takes to win a Weekly. But the Monthly? That, my friends, that is up to you.

Here are your nominees for HCwDB of the Month:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Grenade Tosser

Sure this gnome putz is more of a goofy clown than infuriating ‘bag.

But note the black fingernails, bandana, earring and utterly inexplicable grenade on the shirt. Then factor in the smug expression and boob grab maneuver.

Add it up, and what do you get? A Monthly finalist. That’s what.

She is a lovely Raisinet of chocolate dipped goodness. Two hair tones and a glorious smile.

That lovely lip gloss that they make only in heaven. It’s on the counter right next to the Heaven’s Own Whips ™ section.

Because God is a freak like that.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks

HJBBaD is a unique finalist in that the strength of his appeal lay not within photographic evidence of his wrongness, but in his bewildering and douchily genius scat poetry on his Facebook profile.

To wit:

I DON’T LIKE:

cops. snitches. girls that smoke cigarettes. crooked teeth. yellow teeth. acne. sand on my feet. sand on my genitals. sunburns. peeling skin. tarantulas. moles. girls with a lot of freckles. beauty marks..it ain’t no beauty mark bitch.

To read the collected works of HJBBaD’s poetry, you can go here and here.

HJBBaD is a Douche Poet. The Allen Ginsberg of his generation. Jack Kerouac’s On the Choad. He is, um, a big turd.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: Millennium ‘Bag aka The Android aka The Fembot

The Mill is already legend. His crimson visage has burned a hole through our collective retinas, and calls for entry into the Hall of Scrote are building with each passing sunburnt day.

M.B. is so powerful with his shaved hair, gelled metallic shine and tanning accident, we’ve barely touched upon his rather cute European lady friend.

Who knows what country in Europe this was taken in. We know only that the ‘baggitude is off the charts. She is hott. He is a robot from the future sent back to douche us all and change history.

So he must be stopped.

Or he’ll just keep on coming, until we’re all tanning and gelling like zombified fiends of the Euro-night.

And, he’s really really creepy. Like nightmare creepy. Make him stop. Please. Someone.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Deathtongue

Rarely does a pic of a heaping douche embracing a hott cause pain to shoot through our stomachs and shake the grounds upon which we walk.

Deathtongue is that pic.

The strength of this douchey/hott monstrosity lies not just in the embrace, the saliva, and the grease of the choad, but in the dancing eyes of joy on the cat eyed minx of perfection.

She enjoys this. Repeat. She enjoys this.

The heart of any great HCwDB pic is in the cultural violations of spectacle captured in frozen pixelated form.

The second pic is even worse.

This Quartasian steals my heart with a flick of her eyes. While Deathtongue salivates on her lower jaw.

Each of these pics could win.

Each of them is deserving in their own way. Each coupling brings a different set of skills to this death match round robin battle.

Does the Grenade Tosser ride the mamms of victory? Can He Just Bangs Bitches and Drinks ride the infuriating scribblings of a State School douche to the top? Will Deathtongue and his Quartasian combine to knock out the competition? Or is the Android too robotic to be challenged?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Kenny the Middle Aged Party Animal

I’m deleting the 2nd pic of the UFC badass, even if his girlfriend is the hottest woman in creation, because I’d really rather not have my femur bones snapped like a twig.

So instead, here’s Kenny.

Kenny, when your overpaid life coach helping with your midlife crisis said for you to “reach for the stars,” he did not mean that literally, and he did not mean with your hair.

Where's Waldouche: Sunday Hangover Edition

Somewhere in this duo of drunken sorority girls, I’ve carefully hidden a lanky buzzcut Waldouche making the rare “double yo” gesture.

Look closely.

Can you find him?

Where is this place? I haven’t seen hijinks this wacky since Johnny Depp aerobicized in Private Resort.

Flex n' Face

Here’s a new ‘bag maneuver — the simo face-suck + arm flex.

This is no easy ‘bag maneuver. It’s like chewing gum and walking at the same time. Or patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time.

Or being a heaping douche and a heaping scrote at the same time.

I feel oily just looking at this monstrosity. And not just because Kimmy is fondling his bits.

The Karamazovbag

Fyodor Dostoyevsky here isn’t really a conventional ‘bag. More like 19th Century alcoholic Russian writer.

But then you notice the two-buttons on the shirt. The shaved down beard. And you realize he’s actually a dawning stage-1 Karamazovbag. Certainly enough to post.

She is a Russian samovar of bubbling vodka and two firm pirogies. A Siberian minx, a Soviet temptress, a Bond villain ready to spank me with fly swatter and read me passages from Lenin.

Oh yes.

I would Stalin her Luftballoons, and Perestroika her Gorbachevs.

By which I mean I would hump her like a cracked up circus clown on no-doze.

EDIT: And if this is indeed a UFC Champion, let me just state that he is a scholar and a gentleman, an intellect and a class act, and please do not rearrange the bone structure of my face.

New York in the 80s

In reflecting on classic New York proto-douche Mickey Rourke recently, I realized that the seeds of modern scrotey go back before the Grieco/Bleeth coupling of the mid 1990s.

The 1980s.

When I was a kid growing up in the 1980s, New York never felt like a real place. It was this dreamland, with all of its danger, chaos, glitter and toys. An otherworldly playground fantasy.

A kaleidoscopic maelstrom of sex and parties, beautiful people and never-ending pleasures. Private schools with slutty drinking teenage hotts. Central Park in Fall. Sexed up model sluts with shoulder pads and big hair and boobs. Home of the hated Yankees and the illicit inverted-Disneyland porn palaces of Times Square.

New York in the 1980s was the land where adults did whatever the hell they wanted. Where everyone acted like kids.

At least, that’s how I saw it through my film/TV prism and twelve year old mind.

Letterman’s velcro suit. Griffin Dunne running through Soho. Eddie Murphy looking for his bride in Queens. Woody Allen wandering up 5th Avenue. Spike Lee ranting in Brooklyn. Switchblades for sale on 9th avenue and full frontal nudity on Broadway. Terrible art. Champagne parties in Trump Tower.

On the occasional trips when my parents would take me for a weekend visit I would breathe New York smog in joyously, watching the chaos blurring by outside my taxi window as we raced through the city of guns, murder and graffiti subways.

The ghost of Warhol. The Beasties. Katz’s pastrami. Charlie Sheen and Darryl Hannah buying condos.

New York was a pastiche. A collage of illegality and immorality. A place where kids my age seemed twice as old. World weary in a way I could only dream about being. A place where parents were absent and bars didn’t card. I wanted to hop the bus and camp out with Tom Hanks in a seedy motel eating cold pizza and squirting silly string.

Movies, TV, books and theater, mixing in my fevered Junior High mind with a siren song of promise. Endless adventure. The unlimited adulthood that would soon be mine.

When I finally got my ass to New York for college in the early 1990s, it was never quite what I’d hoped. Never quite the delivery of 1980s fueled fantasy. Letterman got the 11:30 slot. Rudy came in with his fascist thugs. Crime dropped and the web boomed.

The danger diminished. No magic lurking around every corner in the way that I’d hoped. But then again, it never could.

Reality is never like you imagine it in the crazed dreams of childhood, when you lie awake reading about Sallinger’s phonies, Bret Easton Ellis’s coke parties and Tama Janowitz’s lower east side. MTV music awards and Kurt Loder news updates. A sick summer sweatland myth of a city that only exists as artistic creation blasted through the prism of media reinvention. Blasted into my eager young psyche with the power chords and glitter of a pure visceral high.

The New York I was promised in the 80s. Where I could kick pansy-ass Mickey Rourke’s douchey ass and whisk Kim Bassinger off to my penthouse apartment, where we’d play with toys from the Shaper Image before watching the Playboy channel and rubbing each other with oils.

1990s New York was great, but also kind of a letdown. AIDS and Rudy’s fascism. K-Mart in the Village. Yuppies and then the internet boom of endlessly replicating hipster douchefaces, clones produced by the bushel in the irono-factories of suburban sprawl. Coming from all corners of the country to turn New York into just another mall. Minnesota with cabs.

But every so often, the dream would spark back alive. Become real. Become everything promised. The beauty and danger and illicit aliveness outside of the pre-determined bounds of cowardice packaged as “normalcy.”

New York is still there. Buried, maybe. Different. But still there.

Dammit. I need to go for a visit.